Fenris

So painfully aware of Eavelynne was he that when she gave a sharp, stifled gasp he was by her side in an instant, blade ready to run through whatever opponent threatened her. When he saw no immediate foe raising staff or sword to strike her, he relaxed and regarded her quizzically with one black—at odds with his mop of unruly white hair—raised eyebrow. He half expected a cherubic blush, as was the normal response to his rarely used expression, but instead she was as white as a sheet.

Following her gaze, he saw a naked elder lying supine on a table in the middle of the room. He had to admit the sight of the blood-drained lacerations was a tad horrific even to his hardened heart, and he wondered how he had crossed the room without noticing it.

"See for yourself," he said drily, bitterly. "The legacy of the magisters. Does this bother you? After all, you mages always find a way to justify your needs for power, don't you?" This perhaps was not the most tactful thing to say to her, as fragile—yet obviously powerful—as she was, but their shared scene on the Wounded Coast had been too much. She had unwaringly come too close to his confused sentiments, and he had to push her away, had to be cruel to her lest... lest she thought him weak and emotional. Before her natural compassion overwhelmed him; before she became attached to him.

Shock, followed immediately by such hurt that he shifted his gaze, a curious feeling stabbing through his chest, ran across her delicate features. She physically wavered, leaning on her iron staff for support, and he thought she might weep or utter an angered outburst she would later regret, but she surprised him. She straightened and made an attempt to wipe away the wounded look on her face, entirely unsuccessful. "Yes," Eavelynne said, whisper soft, a few moments later. "It does bother me."

And indeed, he could see that it did: every death that she saw and partook in destroyed a bit more of that gentle spirit and demeanor he almost envied, and he pondered this astonishing revelation.
"You don't need to kill anyone; I'll take care of that. Just don't hit me with any of your spells." he said curtly, cursing his allowance of kindness, flawed as it was. He was not strong enough to attempt a smirk, but managed to keep an insolent expression as he turned around and strode down the dark corridor angrily.

After a moment he could hear her footsteps as they padded after him, and he did not allow his stride to shorten to match her slighter build. He flung open the door and was almost glad to see a horde of Tevinter mercenaries. It meant that he could bury thoughts of her in bloodlust and rage, and he charged recklessly at them, cutting through them like a razor-sharp knife through butter. His vision was red, he tasted blood…

He instantly knew by her ragged, shuddering intake of air that she was hurt. Guilt and shame slammed into him. You should have watched her, should have cared for her, his conscience tormented. She had her mabari, her spells, he retorted. You attempted to justify your vindictiveness to her, and now you attempt to justify yourself? This last thought he did not acknowledge, and he finished off the final Tevinter before he spun around.

"Eavelynne!" He said, reaching for her. Her pupils were dilated with pain, her eyes wide with shock, and her hand was pressed to her thigh where blood gushed from her fingers, but she was still faster than him as she dodged his grasp and staggered past him. Rejection stung, and he internally laughed at himself. He had what he wanted, didn't he? She hated him, and therefore they were both safer because of it.

Hawke

She darted to the corpse of her mabari, ignoring both Fenris and the jarring pain that shot up her leg. Almost corpse, she remedied; as she collapsed before his furry form, his lungs gave a painful heave. She gathered her magic about her and shot it through his body in an instant. Nothing happened, and she stared at the dog as he went limp in her arms. Even as a small child, she had always been the most powerful mage in her family: her magic didn't ever fail. She did it again, and the blue light bounced off the un-receiving body into her own wound. She didn't wince as the flesh pulled itself back together over the gushing blood.

A familiarly talon-like hand descended on her shoulder. She merely pulled it off before she lay the spell on her mabari again: she knew Fenris didn't like to be in contact with a mage. It had once bothered her, but in the blank state of denial her mind was in it seemed immaterial.

This time the hand was more forceful, and she struggled against him. He pulled her up and then spun her around, embracing her gently. As she stood there numbly, her head barely reaching his collarbone, feeling began to come back. She gave a single sob. Not again, not another death so soon. Not another comfort session from Fenris: she didn't know if she would survive its unreasonable, vengeful aftermath. It didn't make sense that he was hugging her; the man was a bundle of contradictions. It also didn't make sense that enjoyment was creeping up on her, and she damned her emotions to darkspawn hell. She pulled away. He would only hurt her later, she was quickly learning. Behind her, the mabari disintegrated into ash with a bright flare, and a breeze of unknown origins lifted it away. He let her go without comment, and they continued.

Some several killings later, in which she summoned a grieving haze to block out the blood and screams while Fenris cleared the way, she stumbled upon an elven girl huddled in a shady corner, trying to look inconspicuous. If she hadn't been half inclined to seek the darkest crook available and burst into tears, she might have missed her. The girl was obviously not a Tevinter soldier, and she knelt before her, forcing her deadened voice to come out soft and compelling.

"Here, poppet, come on out where I can see you. I'm not going to hurt you." She said, beckoning with a hand. "Are you alright? Did they touch you?" In the light, she could see that girl was of similar age as her when she first came to Kirkwall. Garish, colorful make-up ran down the girl's angular, gaunt face, tears playing havoc with the paint.

"They've been killing everyone!" The girl's voice came out panicked and slightly dazed. "They cut Papa, bled him!"

"Why?" Fenris said, coming up behind her. She jumped, startled: he usually charged bluntly into battle, not taking the time to sneak covertly. "Why would they do this?" His voice sounded pained, and she looked up at him, seeing the recognition of previous slave to suffering slave.

"The magister… she said she 'needed power', that someone was coming to kill her." Fenris blanched.

"It's not your fault," Eavelynne said automatically, wanting anything on his face other than that appalled look on his face. She froze—why did she keep on purposely exposing herself to further tongue lashings from him?—and turned her gaze back to the girl an instant before Fenris looked at her.

"We tried to be good, we did everything we were told. She loved Papa's soup! Why would she kill her? I don't understand any of it." She was crying. "Everything was fine until you came!"

"It wasn't." Fenris said, closing his eyes in pain. "You just didn't know anything better."

"Are you…" The girl suddenly sounded slightly cheered. "Are you my master now?"

"What? No!"

"But—but, I can cook! I can clean!" She was suddenly desperate. "What else will I do?"

"What's your name?" Eavelynne said, smiling. "Orana, is it? My name is Hawke, and my mother, Leandra, has just bought back our ancestral estate. I expect that it will take quite a lot to keep it hospitable. You can come with me to Kirkwall."

"Oh! Thank—"

"I didn't realize that you were in a market for a slave," Fenris growled from behind her. She closed her eyes, weary of the acidic remarks, and wondered at the obvious fact that he didn't trust her at all. Andraste's ass, why was he so stereotypical of mages?

"I gave her a job, Fenris," She snapped, pushed to her breaking point. She pressed her lips together, annoyed that she had slipped even for a moment. He was silent for awhile.

"Then… that's good: my apologies." Before she could gape at him, he strode off. "Let's find Hadrianna and be done with this cursed place."

She pulled Orana up and towed her along by her hand. Encumbered with her, she soon lost sight of him and followed the trail of bodies that inevitably led to Fenris, towering over who she assumed to be Hadrianna. Orana gave a whimper and hid behind her, face buried in the skirts of her robe.

"Stop!" Hadrianna demanded, like a child who has no defenses toward a righteous parent save indignant statements. "You do not want me dead!"

"On the contrary, there is only one person I want dead more." He said, lifting his blade high above his head.

"I have information, elf," she hissed, "and I will trade it for my life."

Fenris spat at her. "Hah! The location of Denarius, I expect? What good will that do me?" The muscles of his arms bulged. "I'd rather he lose his pet pupil!"

"You have a sister!"

He stumbled as he strove to divert the sword's path, and she took that opportunity to fling a spell that would ignite him into flames. Eavelynne knew the counter spell: she and Bethany had practiced it many a time. Hadrianna glanced at her in alarm, blue eyes wide with fright in her long, narrow face.

"You ally yourself with a mage? You are the last person I would expect… What is she to you?" she said.

Fenris glanced at her, dark eyes unreadable. He turned back to Hadrianna, and raised his blade once more.

"You wish to reclaim your life? Let me go, and I will tell you where she is." The magister staggered up, hope flaring into her eyes. Eavelynne forced herself to view the woman coldly, mimicking Fenris. He leaned closer so that Hadrianna and he were eye to eye.

"So I have your word? I tell you and you let me go?"

"Yes," the words were forced through clenched teeth, "you have my word."

"Her name is Varania. She is in Tevinter, serving under a man named Ahriman." She said, stammering in her haste to say the words. Fenris made her stop.

"A servant, not a slave." It wasn't a question.

"She's not a slave—"

"I believe you." Fenris said. His skin blazed blue, and Hadrianna's eyes widened. "W—"

Eavelynne closed her eyes at the sound of ravaged flesh and her agonized cry. The bones of her ribcage snapped, one by one, and she put her hands over Orana's ears. Blood ran from her mouth, a black wave, and Fenris withdrew his fist with a sickening sound. His fist hissed and sizzled as the light smoked away from it, and he turned back to her, that flawless poker face that rivaled Varric and Isabella's in place once more.

"We are done here," He said, striding past her without looking at her.

"Fenris, wait," She reached after him, but Orana fumbled her attempts. "Do… you want to talk about it?"

He froze for a moment, then spun back around and glared at her. "No, I don't want to talk about it!" He snarled, almost shouting. His voice moderated slightly at her expression, but the snarl stayed. "This could be a trap! Denarius could have sent Hadrianna here to tell me about this 'sister'. Even if he didn't, trying to find her would still be suicide. Denarius has to know about her, has to know that Hadrianna knows." His voice was distressed, and he immediately stopped. He started turning back again. "But all that matters that I finally got to crush this bitch's heart. May she rot, and all the other mages with her."

She flinched. She knew he didn't mean it, and she knew that he was speaking from grief and pain, but the words were still crushing blows to her heart. She felt hollow inside, like a mirror shattered into millions of ethereal pieces, a sad reminder of what once had been.

"Maybe…" She struggled to keep her voice politely concerned, as a friendly mage might, and failed miserably. "Maybe we should leave?" She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"No!" The word was an explosion. "I don't want you comforting me." Ah, and there were the fragments of the mirror being pulverized into dust. Only Orana's tenacious hold on her legs kept her standing upright, and she almost wept as she saw his profile in the dark cavern light as he turned back yet again for another vicious tongue lashing.

"You saw what was done here! There's always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this." The words were vehement, venomous. "Even If I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her. What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?" He spat, every bitterly enunciated consonant another ripping wound. A tear dripped down her cheek, a silent, pleading entreaty for him to leave before the tear became a torrent. Something in that plea reached him, and he turned away, hand hiding his expression.

"I…" He exhaled. "I need to go." He walked away without looking at her again.

Once she was out of sight, she let herself start sobbing wretchedly. Eventually Orana tugged at her hand.

"Mistress? Mistress, forgive me for saying so, but your… friend is mean. I'm glad that he didn't want to be my master. You seem nicer."

She looked up and smiled through the tears. "Yes, but… he can't help it. Or won't. I suppose it's better this way. Better for him, at least."

Orana looked puzzled. After a moment she said, "Mistress, it's getting dark. Is Kirkwall far away from here?"

"I suppose we had better get going." How gallant of him, she thought sarcastically. I hope to Andraste that nothing else attacks us before we make it back. Running through the Free Marches' map she had stored in her brain and calculating the long trek she had back, plus slowed down by Orana, the odds didn't seem good. She sighed, and began to retrace her steps out of the holding caves.

Outside it was raining. That was good: she could cry freely without frightening Orana. She shielded them as best as she could, gave Orana her staff to hold and hiked her up onto her shoulders. She started walking. The rain that her drained magic did not completely stop was chilling against her hot tears.